Wishes
by Kate Christie
Summary: "You'd better hurry up, Castle. I'm almost laced up, and you're on the clock with the Zamboni." A coda to "Wishes." My story from the 12th Precinct Christmas fanfic competition, which tied for third in the popular vote.
1. Chapter 1

**Wishes**

**A Christmas Eve Story**

**I have seen the promo photos, but I have not seen any sneak peeks for 5x09. I also did read a few spoilers, and those might have influenced tiny details of this, but all major points of the story were written before I did so, and some of this doesn't match them anyway.**

"So she's coming after all?" Alexis asks brightly as she pulls a batch of sugar cookies out of the oven. He loves that his daughter has taken up the cause of getting Kate into some of their Christmas traditions, despite the fact that she isn't used to sharing. Might have something to do with the fact that he's been moping all day.

Castle drops his cell back into the pocket of his bright red apron with the words "The REAL Santa" emblazoned across the chest and returns to stirring the bubbling sauce on the stove, the first completely unencumbered smile of the evening drawing his lips into a bow.

"Yeah, she said someone volunteered to take over for her, so she's on her way."

He only bounces on his toes twice. Well, fine, three times, but he wants to jump up and down and clap his hands with glee, and the little tinkle from the jingle bells on the pockets of the apron is really not that loud.

His heart, his whole spirit, has lifted with her words just now on the phone call, a timid sort of excitement bubbling in her voice, too, even through the cell. Having cleared the Santa case yesterday, he'd hoped that meant he would have her to himself for Christmas Eve, since she always tries to see her dad if she's off on Christmas Day. He couldn't stop his face from falling when Kate had informed him she would be working on Christmas Eve, as always giving her fellow officers with families the day to be home.

At the time, he had thought better of reminding her that she had a family, now, too, knowing that baby steps were still in order when it came to their more involved family traditions, especially at the holidays. But he hadn't imagined the tinge of disappointment in her tone when she had called him early this morning to tell him she had another case—hopefully one they could put to bed quickly, but there were no guarantees.

She'd insisted that he not join her, that he stay with Alexis and do all the Christmasy things she knew they had planned, and as much as he'd wanted to be with Kate on Christmas Eve, crime scene or no, he missed his daughter, needed to be with her while he had the chance. But he'd made Kate promise that whenever she finished, no matter how late, that she would stop by.

The fact that it's still an hour until dinner and she is already on her way… Well, Alexis is smirking at him, which likely means his grin is bordering on ridiculous. And he might have just bounced a few more times. Damn bells.

As they have for more than a decade, he and Alexis spent the day baking and decorating and cooking and making eggnog, all the while preventing Martha from singeing, scorching, over-seasoning, or otherwise leaving her signature mark on their feast. The older woman's only job in the kitchen on Christmas Eve is, appropriately, to make the mulled wine, which she manages annually with ever-increasing flourish. The current concoction is simmering happily on the stove, beside the rest of their traditional Christmas Eve feast.

Well, perhaps "traditional" is too strong a word.

Traditional implies things like turkey and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, and though those will all be on the table tomorrow, tonight is a bit more unconventional. Tradition for them, nonetheless.

"Dad, you'd better hurry up with the sauce, or else I'm going to have to make the guacamole."

"No! I'm hurrying. I'm hurrying." He turns off the gas under the pan of green tomatillo salsa and carries it over to the pan of waiting chicken enchiladas. "And I still don't understand why you want to burn my taste buds off with all that fresh jalapeño. Salsa is supposed to make you sweat, and then you eat the guacamole to soothe."

"If you can't handle the heat, make it your way… But I'm just saying, Jose Andres says you can put as much spice as you want in it…"

Sliding the sauced and cheesed pan of rolled corn tortillas into the oven, he sets the timer and turns to the pile of ripe avocados beside the sink.

"And therein lies your problem, oh daughter of mine. Jose Andres is from Spain. I learned to make guacamole when I was researching a book in San Antonio, from the chef at Rosario's, who is Mexican. Guacamole came from the Aztecs, in Mexico."

Her eye roll is impressive as she pipes red frosting onto a reindeer-shaped cookie's nose.

"Did you turn on the water under the tamales yet?"

Checking his watch between halving the wrinkly green Haas, he shakes his head.

"Not yet. They just need to warm up before she gets here. Hey, check the queso when you finish Rudolph."

Alexis finishes his antlers and then lifts the lid on the crock pot, gives it a stir, turns an indulgent smile on him.

"Bubbly and cheesy. Chill Dad. She's going to love all of it. Even your bland guacamole."

Self-awareness has never been his strongest suit, but he recognizes his own hypervigilance tonight. He just can't seem to stop himself. It's their first Christmas together. And now they're actually going to get to spend part of it together-together. They deserve a little bit of perfect with the year they've had.

"Kate just hasn't really done the Christmas thing since her mom's been gone. And we're not exactly the most subtle of Christmas households. I'm afraid we're going to spook her with all our Castle Christmasyness."

His daughter crosses to stand beside him, grabs the second cutting board and starts chopping cilantro.

"She's going to love all of it, because she loves you. So stop stressing."

It hits him in the gut, the fact that his daughter can say the words so freely when the woman in question still cannot. He removes the seed from the last avocado and pries his knife out of it deftly before starting to scoop the soft green flesh into the bowl.

"She still hasn't told you, has she?"

Her voice is laced with disappointment, a hint of irritation. The girl has certainly inherited his perceptiveness. Though she has accepted that Kate makes him happy, his daughter still has her reservations about what she sees as the inequalities in their relationship.

"No. But she shows me every day."

"I know that's supposed to be more important in the long run, but don't you ever just want to hear the words? She's heard them from you."

"Not in a long time, sweetheart."

"But it only takes one time to know that it's always there."

He can't come up with a rebuttal to that, and the words linger in the air, despite the waft of "Jingle Bells" from Trans Siberian Orchestra coming from the speakers in the living room. Because as much as he knows it's there now, shining from Kate's eyes, radiating from the warmth of her hand in his, his grown-up little girl is right. He wants the words. Badly. But emotionally bribing her with Christmas sentimentality until she can't help but let them out is not the way he wants to hear them for the first time. He's content to wait her out.

Again.

He's suddenly glad that this year's world cuisine is Mexican. Smashing the avocados turns out to be an excellent outlet for his frustrations, and reaming out limes also has a therapeutic effect. He didn't get to mash anything last year with the Thai curries, though red and green were appropriately festive for their Christmas table.

Alexis adds the cilantro and grinds sea salt and black pepper on top as he mixes, then grabs a chip for a taste test.

"Needs something."

"Not fresh jalepeno."

"No. Maybe a little more garlic?"

He swipes a dollop up with his finger and tastes.

"No way. Not trying to fend off vampires."

Alexis squints sideways and gives him a saccharine smile.

"You just want your girlfriend to kiss you more."

Then she sticks out her tongue.

"So what if I do? I'm allowed to kiss her now!"

Martha sashays in just in time to break the impasse, snagging a chip and loading it up.

"Needs chili powder."

"You two-I swear that gene skipped a generation."

Reluctantly he sprinkles in about five grains of the dark red spice, gets the evil eye from both redheads simultaneously, and adds about a quarter teaspoon.

"When my ears start smoking, you two have to explain it to Kate."

"Kate's coming after all? Oh, marvelous! That's just wonderful. I'll go pull her gifts out front under the tree."

"Mother, I'm not sure that's such a good idea. I don't know if she got anything for us. Maybe we should just wait and see."

"Nonsense, darling. Every woman wants a Christmas gift from her boyfriend."

"But maybe not from his entire family."

"Fine… Fine. I'll leave them where they are. But if she walks in with presents, we're definitely doing a gift exchange before the night is over, since you couldn't get her to stay for tomorrow."

He doesn't say that he's still hoping to sway her, at least into spending the night.

An hour later, when he opens the door to her soft knock, he is nearly knocked over by the face that greets him. Kate Beckett is always beautiful, but tonight her cheeks and nose are pinked from the cold, eyes sparkling, lips curving excitedly upward, hair trailing over her shoulders. She looks absolutely radiant, and he just wants to kiss her right there, with the gravity of this moment, of this evening, of them being together for even one evening of this holiday warming him from head to toe. But he steps back, lets her in instead of pulling her in and hauling her into his arms right then. Treading lightly.

"Merry Christmas."

He can't seem to make anything more coherent come out of his mouth, but then she answers with no more eloquence, so he doesn't feel so bad.

"Merry Christmas."

Closing the door softly behind her, he turns to take her coat, but she's already taken a fews steps toward the living room, seems to be taking in the tree. Proud of his own and his daughter's accomplishment decorating, he moves past her to give her the Christmas tour. When he turns to start his tale of their adventures with lights and garland and that blasted tree stand, he stops short, because she's smiling, eyes upcast, and he sees absolutely everything pouring out of her.

So he steps in close, steals her focus, tries to absorb all of the light shining out of her eyes, all of the warmth radiating off her. It's like basking in a sunbeam on a cold winter day, strikes him clear and true and makes him feel invincible. It's love he's soaking up; he knows it by how it lights up his heart, starts a tingle at the base of his spine that spreads through his whole body, leaves him breathless.

"I'm really glad you're here."

His voice has come out gruffer, deeper than he meant. It betrays his heart's musings, but she seems to take it in stride, breathing out her response and inching closer.

"So am I."

The edges of her coat are nudging at his sleeves, her scarf brushing the front of his shirt, and he can't help but close the distance, wrap his arms around her waist, meet her lips gently with the brush of his smile.

Steps in the hall upstairs alert him that his mother or Alexis are on their way down, but they no longer jolt apart when his family is nearby. Hooking his fingers in her lapels, he nuzzles her nose, watches her eyes unfocus at his nearness, lifts her coat up and off her shoulders.

"Did I mention I'm glad you're here?"

Their smiles meet again, and he drags himself away from her mouth to get the coat the rest of the way off, stow it with her scarf. His daughter pads down the stairs just in time offer a hug and an eggnog and be a proper hostess, allowing him to watch from a distance, finish the table while quietly imagining what it would be like to have her here every year, not a witness to their traditions or a guest at their table, but a willing participant.

Dinner passes with his head still in the clouds over the fact that she's really here, and even though he knows he must look like some lovesick sap, he just can't bring himself to care. Because it's Christmas Eve, and he finally gets to kiss the right girl under the mistletoe. Well, he's not going to be a stickler about where exactly he kisses her, but he will continue to do so, as often as possible, poisonous plant or no.

Going through their routine, a look passes between his mother and daughter and he, and they silently skip the gifts, move on to the wishing ornaments. He figures the miniature coffee mug he found at Starbucks won't count as a real gift, and she needs a wishing ornament anyway.

They all take their turn finding a place on the tree, stopping with fingers not quite letting go to close their eyes and make a wish. Alexis is first with a brand new shining "Columbia" crest, and then his mother with her tiny ceramic Playbill, made to match A Midsummer Night's Dream. He nods for Kate to put up hers next, and she finds a sturdy branch for the heavy ceramic cylinder, leans in, lower lip caught between her teeth, considering. When she finally closes her eyes, breath held, he realizes he's been holding his as well, waits until her hand is by her side and she's stepping away to let his lungs inflate.

The red velvet loop of his fountain pen ornament is twined around one digit as he inspects the tree for blanks spaces. Resisting the urge to slide it onto the branch just beside hers, he opts for a higher one, stretches up to hook the ribbon over an empty spot, closes his eyes to make his wish, and suddenly realizes he has no clue what to wish for, because this year, his only wish has actually come true. His eyes open in consternation, drawing funny looks from all three women, but he shakes his head, closes his lids, takes a breath and thinks very hard to himself: "Let's just make it every year, Santa."

After the marshmallow roast in the fireplace, his mother and Alexis bid them goodnight and disappear, leaving them on the couch with their wine, the room lit by firelight and the twinkling lights of the tree.

Kate has been quiet, even for her, and he can't help but think he sees some sadness in her eyes now that the family is gone. He hopes beyond hope that he's imagining the flicker of distance in the blink of her lashes, the cant of her shoulders, the subtly diminished curve of her lips.

"I should be going."

His stomach drops, and his brain scrambles to find some excuse...

"Oh, wait, help me with the Santa presents first. Mother usually does-too many to carry out by myself."

She follows him into his office to the giant pile of wrapped boxes and starts stacking them in his arms.

"Are all these for Alexis?"

His laugh seems to catch her off guard.

"No, these go to the shelter when we go serve lunch tomorrow. When Alexis was eight, she asked why she got so many presents when some kids didn't get any, so we started doing this. She's got a few under the tree though. I just still love to have the giant pile there from Santa on Christmas morning. Reminds me of when she was little."

It takes them two loads each to shift the piles out, during which Kate remains notably silent. As they arrange the last of the gifts, seated and leaning under the tree, he rolls on his back, grabs her hand to pull her down to lie next to him, heads resting against the edges of the fluffy tree skirt.

"This is my favorite way to look at it."

She tips her gaze up to match his.

"You guys did a great job. It really is beautiful, Castle."

After a moment, his eyes are drawn to her face, the white fairy lights painting her skin with their snowy glow, sparking her eyes from hazel to bright green. He squeezes her hand, the tree the last thing on his mind now.

"Yeah, I think so, too."

A knowing smile quirks her lips, and her eyes slant over to meet his.

"Sap."

Frowning in indignation, he banters back.

"It's Christmas. I'm allowed to be sentimental. It's a requirement during the holidays!"

"Oh really?"

Rolling toward her, he releases her hand to prop his head up on it.

"It's a Christmas tradition."

"What other Castle Christmas traditions should I know about?"

A warmth that has nothing to do with the wine simmers deep in his chest at the realization that she's actively asking, that she wants to know what makes his little family tick. And she's lying on his floor in his living room, staring up into his Christmas tree at midnight on Christmas Eve, showing no sign that she's looking to flee in holiday-induced fear any time soon. Maybe he's lulled her into complacency, hypnotized her with tinsel and shiny baubles and twinkling lights. He'll take it. He'll take anything that keeps her here even a minute longer. So he answers, giving her his best welcoming smile.

"I think you saw the evidence of the Christmas cookie bake-off."

"I think I ate half your evidence." She pats her stomach, flat as ever as far as he can tell. "Gonna have to go for a Christmas morning run thanks to Alexis' team of not-so-tiny reindeer."

His hand gravitates toward hers, laces his warm fingers with her chilly ones over her belly button. As her shirt shifts upward with the extra weight of his arm, he sees goosebumps on the soft skin just above the waist of her pants. He kicks himself for not thinking of it. She's not even wearing a sweater, and her feet are bare, and she's tiny and they're on the floor and now he's let her...

"You're cold. Why didn't you say something? I didn't have the heat up because we had the ovens and the stove going and then the fireplace…"

Her eyes stop his rambling, send a bolt of... something straight to his heart, and then her mouth opens and he's almost gasping for air at her words.

"Don't turn up the heat, you can keep me warm."

Scooting in closer, he curls himself around her, nudging her knees up to drape them over his thighs. His chest is pressed against her side, free arm encircling her waist, hand tucked tightly between the rug and the small of her back. She's relaxed into him, leaning in to touch her temple to the curve of his shoulder.

"Better?"

God, it's so much better. So much better than years of imagining where she was, what she was doing, if there were tears and ghosts and shadows keeping her company instead of smiles and family and light.

"Much."

His heart settles into a slow canter, and he tries to resurrect their earlier conversation.

"Actually, after tonight, you've seen most of our holiday craziness. Want to tell me about some of yours?"

Her eyes close once, and she takes a slow breath, as if opening up the book of her memory to a very old, delicate page, one that's yellowed and might crumble if not handled just right. Her words are slow, quiet, reverent when she opens her eyes, dark and bottomless, and looks into his.

"Sure. What do you want to know?"

With that openness, that trust she's put in him, he won't let there be any sadness tonight, not from his questions. Their first Christmas won't be marred by so much melancholy—not when everything has been so bright. Falling back on what they do best, he keeps his tone playful and light.

"Did you open your presents on Christmas morning, or Christmas Eve?"

"Christmas morning, definitely. Except for one. We always got to open one the night before."

Oh, wasn't that an excellent piece of information. Useful. Very useful.

"Real tree, or artificial?"

A smile graces her whole face as she starts to speak.

"Real, though my dad was totally allergic. He had to take allergy medication for the whole month of December, sneezed his way through putting it up and getting all the millions of ornaments on it, but he always said it was worth it to see me and my mom bury our noses in the branches every time we walked through the door."

"Where are all your ornaments now?"

The question came out before he could think better of it, but she didn't seem sad.

"My dad has them. Puts up some on a little tiny fake tree in his apartment every year."

"But it's not the same."

"No."

That's why she stood staring at this tree when she first walked in. He hopes she knows she could bury her nose in it, too. The air clogs a bit in his lungs as he makes the decision, takes the leap.

"Bring some next year?"

No air enters, no air leaves, as he watches her, sees the corners of her eyes tighten, considering. The look on her face is teetering on the edge between happy memory and wistful regret, but he thinks she's handling it, choosing to remember well and thoroughly maybe for the first time in a long time.

"Sure. I think my mom would like it if they were on a tree."

"Your tree."

"I haven't had a tree since-"

"This tree, Kate. This can be your tree, too, if you want it to be."

Her eyes close, lips press tight together, ribs cease to expand under his hand. He's tipped her over, sees the reality of it swamp her when she had been floating blissfully along in a land of "what if." And his heart clenches, the voice in his head berating him for always taking it one step too far. She has been so happy all night, and then he screws it up, pushing her into something she's not ready for. What an idiot he is.

"It's late. I really should be heading home."

Uncurling from his hold, leaving a cool vacuum in place of her soft, sweet body, she's up and away before he can even retract his statement, and by the time he catches up with her, it's too late to even try to take the silly, optimistic words back. In full panic mode at this point, he has reached his epiphany-she is leaving right now unless he can stop her. And he knows there is no way to accomplish it physically. All he has are his words to convince her.

"Please don't."

To his credit, those two words stop her in her tracks. Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's pity. He doesn't care, because it gives him time to catch up to her, to get his body between her retreating form and his front door, to get his fingers intertwined with hers and their eyes entangled.

"Just stay. Stay with me, Kate."

He can't read those eyes. He can always read her eyes, but now his telepathy is drawing a blank. The flecks of green sparked into life by the lights on the tree are giving him no clues. The tight line of her jaw, the measured breaths-none yield any hint of her answer.

Desperation takes over, the need to have her here, to face her demons with her, is suddenly overwhelming. As a rule, Rick Castle doesn't beg. But obviously that rule has never applied to this gorgeous, inscrutable paradox of a woman blinking soulfully before him.

"I used to think that, other than Alexis, the thing that made me happiest in the whole world was Christmas." Her hands still feel cool in his as he takes them, the bones delicate spindles stretching out toward him from her wrist, her whole form backlit by the light of the tree. But she grips his fingers fiercely, and that single clench of muscles and tendons gives him the courage to continue. "And then I met you."

Her eyes soften, take on a shimmer of moisture as they bore into his, and one hand loosens from his grasp, finds just enough of his shirtfront to wrap around.

That's the only response he gets. No words-just a fist full of his buttondown. But he'll take it. He'll take it and run.

"I love you, so much. I can't imagine wishing for anything more than to wake up on Christmas morning with you next to me, even if it's only for a little while."

He thinks he has her, sees the love pouring out of her, as it has been all night, but he can't take the chance that he's talking her into this for the wrong reasons.

"I don't want you to do this out of... pity. If I thought that's all this would be, I wouldn't be asking. But I can see it. I can see a part of you wants this, craves it, has to work hard to push it away. It's just that another, smaller, louder part of your past keeps telling you to leave, to tuck away all the pain this season brings back and hold it tight to yourself."

Her eyes shift away, find a spot somewhere near his front door to focus on, and he knows he's hit it exactly right, knows he can break through if he can just keep finding precisely the right words.

"You don't have to live in the memory to keep the memory, Kate. You can make a new one, one that maybe someday will help the sadness fade, and leave you with the good parts of your past shining through."

Covering her tightly fisted hand with his own, he finds it warm, works her fingers loose until they tangle with his, pulls them to his chest.

"I want all of you-not just the happy, smiling, well-adjusted parts. Just let me be here, let me help you find the joy again."

Her eyes return to his, swimming, luminescent. He doesn't want her to cry, but he thinks this night must usually require it of her, and so he's happy to dry the tears.

One leaks past her lashes, and she blinks hard, trying to stop the rest from spilling over. But his thumb is there to catch them, arcing along the curve of her cheek. Swallowing once, she makes the effort to lift her lids, to find him through the unshed tears, and hope buoys his heart at the look she gives him, piercing, direct, undaunted. When she opens her mouth, he can almost hear bells ringing softly in the distance, is sure there's a star streaking across the night sky.

"I'll stay."

**# * # * # * #**

**There is probably more of this. Probably. **

**Joy, my beta, my friend, all the pretty snowflakes go to you for reading this one. And maybe a peppermint mocha, too. Sheep, I promise I have not forgotten the whipped cream. It's coming. And that was NOT DIRTY. STOP IT. Really. It wasn't. The artwork is mine. Feel better, Angie!**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wishes, Chapter Two**

"Really?"

His voice sounds hollow over the hum of blood suddenly rushing in his ears. He hates his insecurity, hates that he needs the confirmation, but she's standing here, features in dark relief against the shine of his Christmas tree, the flicker of firelight punctuating the tears in her eyes, and despite all that pain, pain he thinks he's caused, she's telling him she's not going to leave him tonight. Maybe he heard her wrong.

And then she smiles, and the damn tree has nothing on her.

"Yeah, really."

Still scared half to death he might screw up again, make her change her mind, he resists the call of every cell in his body to sweep her up, kiss her senseless, carry her off to his bed. Instead, he just keeps her hand pressed to his chest, lets her feel the pound and stutter of his heart against his ribs as it washes over him.

"What does a girl have to do to get under some mistletoe around here, anyway?"

And then he's smiling, too, but only until he can get his lips to hers, and even though it's only a second, it seems like an eternity until he finds them, breathes happiness and hope out against them, nudges gently into their softness. All subtlety and gratitude, he meets heat and fervor, and she's wrapping her arms around his neck and angling him closer, tracing the pout of his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, and then all bets are off.

It's not until her legs are cinched around his waist and his fingers have found the tender skin of her lower back that he realizes they are still in his living room. Reluctantly, he takes it down a notch, pulling slowly away from their questing kiss with a lingering press to the corner of her mouth. His words get lost along her jawline.

"I have a present for you."

Chuckling, she puts an inch of space between their smiles and tightens her legs around him.

"Oh, is that what you're calling it? Don't you think I should unwrap it somewhere a little more, private?"

Well, he'd set himself up for that one.

"Not that kind of present. Well, that kind, too, but I meant I have a gift for you under the tree."

"And you want me to open it right now?"

"You did say you always got to open one gift on Christmas Eve..."

Releasing her hold on him, she slides down his body until her feet touch the floor, becoming intimately acquainted with the early evidence of the other present.

"Fine. But you have to open something, too. And not the one I brought. If I'm staying, you have to wait and open that one tomorrow."

"I didn't think you'd brought me a present."

"I've got them in my coat."

As she dodges him to find the garment in question, he can't help but smile at the difference a few moments can make. Somehow, heading for her coat holds only anticipation now.

Turning back with two small envelopes and a box in her hands, she matches his grin.

"I'll put them under the tree."

"You sure I can't open mine now?"

"Delayed gratification, Castle. You remember what that's like."

Oh, does he ever.

Following her to the tree, he digs around in back, pulls out two similarly-shaped boxes wrapped in green paper, checks the tags before handing one to her and plopping down cross-legged beside her.

Finger initially finding an edge, releasing the tape meticulously, she pauses, watches as he rips into his paper with glee, and then follows suit, a devious smile painting her lips.

Though he knows exactly what his is, he can't wait to see what she thinks of hers, and the excitement bubbles over.

Her brows lower as she raises the lid of the shirt box, eyes narrowing in confusion, and then she looks up at him through her lashes.

"Really, Castle? Reindeer pajamas?"

Pulling his own pair of Frosty the Snowman flannel PJs out and holding them up to his chest, he defends his purchase.

"What? They're very festive. And they're warm. Alexis and Mother opened theirs this afternoon!"

"A little sure of yourself with the whole convincing me to stay the night plan, weren't you?"

That forces him to pause, mirth immediately draining from his heart at the prospect of having done another idiotic thing to push her away.

"No-no, I just thought, well, just in case you stayed, then you probably wouldn't have brought any pajamas to wear, and they're good for opening presents and stockings and having Christmas breakfast tomorrow." Oh god. Biting hard on his tongue, he scrambles to fix yet another run of his mouth. Doomed. He's doomed to mess this up. "Not... that you're planning to do any of those things with us tomorrow. I know you have to meet your dad, and you said you want to go for a run, and I would never presume to-"

"Just stop, Castle. They're very sweet. And I said I would stay. That means I'll be here for breakfast. But there better be some serious loot in my stocking."

Oh, thank god she was kidding. His heart just can't take another trip to his front door tonight.

The weight of his own stupidity lifts again, and he quirks an eyebrow.

"Oh, there is, Detective. There definitely is."

# * # * # * #

The four stockings have been re-hung by the chimney with care, their contents, spread over floor and tables and sofa, ranging from M&Ms to make-up to superhero action figures, with the occasional pen and pack of specialty roast coffee beans thrown in for good measure.

Castle and Alexis have taken a break to put the overnight French toast in the oven and refill the coffee mugs, leaving his mother to regale Kate with tales of Christmases past. If only she skips over the fiasco with the wayward troop of elves and the eggnog, he might come away with his dignity. Hearing a shriek of hysterical laughter from Kate, he realizes he should know his mother better than that.

"Keg stands? With eggnog?"

"And let me tell you, those elves could hold their liquor, while my son decidedly could not. I mean, you would think I'd have taught him something after all these years."

Alexis tops off the last mug, adding cream and a pump of vanilla syrup and giving the liquid a stir, then leans in close.

"So you convinced her to stay, after all?"

Knowing his grin is nearly splitting his face, but not caring one iota, he gloats in her direction.

"I did."

"Well, stop right there, because I don't even wanna know how."

"Hey, I didn't, well, I kind of did, but that wasn't why she stayed-"

Grabbing his forearm as he sets down the cream, she turns her eyes toward the ceiling.

"Just-stop. There are some things even therapy can't fix, Dad."

"Okay, fine, but you asked."

Taking on her usual role of the bigger person, she ignores his jab and changes the subject.

"So, you gonna give her the-"

Clapping a hand over her mouth, he whispers emphatically in her ear.

"Don't say it out loud!" At her startled retreat, he softens his tone. "That woman has the ears of an owl. But yes, I'm going to give it to her."

Wrapping her hand around his wrist and removing his palm from where it's clamped over her lips, she turns narrowed eyes on him.

"Good."

And that syllable seems to be all his daughter has to say about the matter, as she lifts two of the Santa mugs and turns on her heel to deliver them.

Another mug of coffee later, all four of them are at the last gift in their piles, and Kate inspects the small box he wrapped weeks ago. Butterflies have chosen this moment to hatch and play a rousing game of charades in his stomach. It's too much. It really is. There's no way she won't completely freak out. But it was there, and it was perfect, and he couldn't very well leave it for someone else...

"It's from me. Sorry there's no tag."

Circling her smile to his whole family, she sets the box on the rug before her.

"Open yours first."

His mother and Alexis tear open the flaps on their envelopes and each pull out folded pieces of paper, both looking mildly confused, but smiling nonetheless. Martha speaks up first, excited tone sort of falling off at the end.

"It's a... sheep."

"And... a llama?" Then Alexis's smile reaches her eyes, and she looks up at Kate as something clicks. "Oh, this is that charity that promotes sustainable agriculture in under-developed countries. You donated animals in our names."

Martha's wrinkled forehead smooths markedly.

"Oh that's lovely, darling! Thank you so much."

"It's called Heifer International. You can read on their website about the communities they benefit. They work all over the world, even here in the US."

Both redheads scoot over to hug Kate, who takes the familial display of affection remarkably in stride.

Castle's hands have stopped unwrapping as he watches the drama unfold, but mostly to let the image of his three favorite people mobbed in a messy group hug in their their obnoxious Christmas pajamas soak in. But he only has so much patience, and he really wants to see what animal she picked for him, so as the ladies separate, he rips into the paper with renewed vigor.

"Ooo. Did you get me a water buffalo? No, maybe a camel. I know, a bear!"

"Dad, how does a bear provided sustainable agriculture?"

His daughter is learning way too much at college. Where's the respect for his childlike enthusiasm? Affecting affront, he spins theory, sees Beckett with half a smile already rolling her eyes.

"Collecting honey, and maybe picnic baskets."

But he's gotten through the wrapping and opened the box, only to find not a picture of an animal, but something much more... unexpected. In fact, what the hell?

"A Nebula Nine keychain? Why Beckett, you shouldn't have."

Finding her face held in a self-conscious little smile, cheeks on fire for no reason he can discern, he continues ribbing.

"Really, you shouldn't have. This is Captain What's-his-Name."

"Rennard. His name is Max Rennard. And you shouldn't be so quick to judge, Castle. That's a collector's item. It's from when the show was on the air. It's even signed."

"By our suspect?"

His girlfriend nods sedately in affirmation.

Still totally confused, he extracts the brass outline of his least favorite Starship captain from the box to inspect the signature, but before he can flip it over, he sees it's been covering up another item. And the implications nearly stop his heart.

It's a sparklingly crisp, brand new, brass key.

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**This story apparently wants to be a little series. I'll do my best to get it updated.**

**To my speed-beta, Joy, you deserve a whole team of sugar-cookie reindeer, and some Tex-Mex, though maybe not in the same sitting. :)**** And Sheep, I'm sorry if I've left you verklempt. I shall rectify the mistake with a healthy dose of smut in the near future.**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynMChristie dot tumblr dot com**


	3. Wicked Wishes (Chapter one point five)

**(Wicked) Wishes (Rated M)  
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**The action in this chapter of Wishes fits in the middle of chapter two, and please note the rating change. Chapter four is again back to a T rating, so you can skip straight to it if the M-rating does not appeal. Happy Birthday, Alex!  
**

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When he exits his bathroom, teeth brushed, face washed, Frosty pajamas tied and buttoned, he expects to find her reading, as she almost always is before bed, whether at her place or at his. A small stack of her current reading selections permanently occupies the nightstand on her side of his bed just for that reason.

But instead of sitting in her new reindeer-covered flannel, propped against his pillows, novel in hand, he finds her snuggled down under the sheet and blanket and comforter, her chin peeking out over the trim. And there is a suspiciously festive pile of clothing on the chair on her side of the bed.

"Pajamas not fit?"

"Oh, no, they were fine."

He slides under the covers on his side, pulling them up under his chin to match her pose, turns his head and meets her profile, in gentle relief against the moonlit window.

"Comfy?"

"Mmmmm hmmmm. Very."

What the hell? His girlfriend is presumably naked under his covers, and despite acting very interested in a little private merry making ever since agreeing to stay the night, now she's playing coy?

Maybe she's opted for the Green Lantern t-shirt that has become unofficially hers despite also being one of his favorites. She'll even steal it off his back to wear to bed, claiming it's the softest one he has. Secretly he thinks she likes it because it carries his rugged, manly scent, but tonight, its color would also be appropriately Christmasy. Assuming that must be it, he still feels the need to confirm she's no longer game for some big-kid Christmas Eve fun. Because really, Christmas comes but once a year...

"Sleepy?"

Her smile is slow to grow, curving up one corner of her mouth, then dipping in the middle, and finally finishing with the steady rise of the other corner into the perfect shallow "u". Good rarely comes of a grin that slow to materialize. Or more accurately, very rarely, something truly excellent has come of it...

"Not at all. Actually, I thought you might want to open one more present before we go to sleep."

Maybe she's got that little box from her coat pocket, all wrapped up in shiny red paper, with her under the covers? His confusion coalesces in a grin, because delayed gratification has never been his thing when it comes to Christmas presents. Turning on his side to face her fully, he inches over closer.

"Sounds like a great idea. Should I go get it from under the tree?"

"Nope, it's right here." Her eyes drop to the covers vaguely outlining her body.

That sounds like an invitation, and she doesn't seem to be moving to lift the blankets herself, so he reaches over, peels them back slowly, revealing more and more and more skin, until he sees that she's nearly naked, but not quite.

Oh holy Christmas cookies; his girlfriend is wearing nothing but a bright red bow and a smile.

His conscious mind has just vacated the premises, but his subconscious tells him this is the big satin ribbon he had wrapped around her pajama box, all wide and slippery and blazingly, riotously red.

Feeling like a deer in the headlights, no pun intended, well, pun somewhat intended, he shakes his head, tries to clear it, make a plan.

Kiss her. That's always a good plan.

But as he leans in toward her lips, she raises an eyebrow and places an index finger pointedly against one smiling snowman's nose in the center of his chest, waiting until she speaks to poke him firmly with the single digit.

"Hold your horses, Frosty. You have to unwrap me first."

Oh good god, it's the Bedroom Voice. That voice does things to his body, well hell, it's already done things, as if the _bow_ tied around the narrowest point of her waist isn't _doing enough_ on its own. He's done. Already done.

He's pretty sure his circulatory system has shunted every drop of blood that ought to be feeding his brain, directing it to give a witty, snarky response, to points south, well, one very specific point south... But the five remaining blood cells bouncing around above his neck finally conspire to orchestrate a smile, and that smile leans down and in until he's hovering near one pointed tip of silky ribbon, a ruby stripe through the porcelain expanse of skin. Just as he opens his mouth to take it between his teeth, he's stopped short by her voice, definitely no longer of the bedroom variety.

"Really, Castle? With your teeth?"

As he tilts his head up, he finds her eyebrow arched high on her forehead, lips down-turned in disappointment.

"You are my present, Beckett, and I feel the need to point out that presents do not have the authority to dictate how they are unwrapped by their recipients. Also, you are lying in my bed on Christmas Eve, wearing only this little red bow tied around your waist, grinning like the Cheshire Cat and asking me to unwrap you. I think in this situation, teeth are _entirely_ in order."

Even her eye-roll can't dim the rush of Christmas glee that's suffused his whole body, flushed his skin, elevated his... spirit. With a smirk, he ducks his head again and delicately takes one end of the ribbon between his teeth, careful to allow the stubble on his chin to graze her belly just enough to tease, and tugs, pulling until one loop has nearly disappeared through the knot in the center.

Her abs contract in anticipation, and as he pulls down, the center releases, and her ribs expand. Continuing his smooth, gentle glide away from her, the knot works itself undone, and the ribbon slides along, dragging across the pale but flushing skin of her hip as it uncurls from her body. Goosebumps rise in its wake, and her back arches off the mattress as the end finally slithers out from under her.

Her eyes are unfocused, lips parted, and her arms lay limp against the pillow, framing her face as she watches the ribbon puddle near her hip and him climb back up the bed to her side.

Time to explore this present a little more thoroughly. Because even if he's had her in his bed a hundred times, well, one-hundred forty-seven times if you want to be specific, he will never, ever tire of finding new ways to make her crazy for him.

Voice gruff, a full octave lower than he remembers it, he stretches over her, holding himself up on hands and knees so that he's hovering above her-not touching-and lets his stream of consciousness spill over her body.

"I don't know what you've got out under the tree in that tiny little box," he finds the angle of her elbow still bent up above her head and bumps the tip of his nose against the soft skin on its inner curve, uses his warm breath and skimming lips to draw a line from there down the underside of her arm just because he knows it will set off every nerve, "but I'm afraid there's no way it's going to beat this present."

Arriving at the dip and rise of her underarm, he nuzzles against the soft skin, insistent even when she tries to fold that arm down self-consciously. She has a thing about letting him have the run of her body when she hasn't showered, but he finds that slight tang of sweat mixed with the remnants of antiperspirant and body lotion incredibly sexy. It must be some deep-rooted instinct, because it turns him on more than a whiff of expensive perfume or the scent of her favorite bubble bath. Maybe because this is just her, and when she leaves his bed, this is the smell he can bury his nose in her pillow and find. Not that he's done that before. Or waited an extra day to change the pillowcase when he knows he'll be on his own for the night. That would be besotted, and pathetic, and he smiles against her skin because he did it last week.

With her arms up, her back is still arched, pushing her breasts up toward him, almost an appeal to appreciate their round fullness, the rosy hue of her nipples. Letting his words wash warm over one peak, he sneaks a look at her face, finds her watching him, eyes dark and lids low.

"This gift is just my style, really."

Letting his tongue circumnavigate the tightening flesh, he draws a contented sigh from her, feels her chest rise in encouragement for him to take her into his warm mouth, and since when can he disappoint her? But he has other places to visit, so he suckles briefly, hums against her when she gasps and threads her fingers into his hair, then pulls back, escapes her hold, runs his roughened cheek lightly along the curving underside, ends his sweep at the faded pink pucker at her sternum. Though he won't dwell here, doesn't unless he's feeling maudlin or needs reassurance, he will acknowledge the spot.

"It's exquisitely beautiful-"

Pressing his lips just long enough to feel her heart beating beneath them, he moves on, leaves a wet trail at the crease of skin below her other breast, dips to find the other spot she's still self-conscious about, though so much less now than when they started doing this in full daylight.

"-powerful, but smooth."

His mouth traces the nearly flat line between her ribs, then wanders down to where the ribbon had spanned her waist, recapitulating its path across her navel with a tiny pause to taste that perfect round indentation.

"Very refined-"

Dropping to the spot where her hip meets her thigh, he tongues the imaginary line downward until he's over her center, lets out a warm puff of air, watches her hips flex up, her thighs subtly spread for him.

"-but so responsive."

How she manages to put together a coherent sentence when she's practically vibrating with arousal, muscles quivering in anticipation, he will never understand, but she does, though the smoky tenor reveals her flustered state.

"It sounds like you're describing your Ferrari."

Unable to help the smile at her snark, he catches the sparkle in her eyes as he dips his tongue into her folds, finds her swollen and soaking wet. His tongue gives her a long, thorough swipe, and her voice rings out above him with an incoherent groan as he settles himself between her legs.

"Oh, but this present is so much better than a car. This present can get goose bumps-"

Using the flat of his tongue, he gently cradles her nub, the purpling tip just peeking out from her delicate hood. Closing his lips over her, he swirls his tongue lightly, circles and then flicks as her body writhes and her breath catches. Disengaging, he gives her a moment to breathe, steady herself, because he has plans for a marathon, not a sprint. He speaks into the soft skin above her pubic bone.

"-and it blushes and sighs and even gasps if I do everything just right."

When he returns to her center and pulls her flesh gently between his teeth, she does exactly as he's just described. Returning to the soft hold of lips and the warm press of his tongue, he flickers fast and firm, then curls around her and sucks until he feels her hips pulse up and hears her voice break on his name. Then he's all softness and languid strokes, easing her over the peak as her movements stutter and ebb under him, her breathing harsh and halting as she falls.

Before she can settle, he slides two thick fingers inside her, curls them forward to trap the rough patch on her inner wall and stroke it with enough force to surprise her, make her desperate to climb again for him. That little mewling whimper that means she's acquiescing to more, letting him take her up, nearly makes him stop just so that he can be inside her the next time. But instead he shifts his hips against the bed, temporarily easing the ache of his own impatient arousal.

His tongue flattens over her, letting the movement of her hips dictate the pressure and friction she needs. But his fingers are more insistent, knowing he can drive her to distraction with just the right strokes in just the right place, and if the noises she's making are any indication, he's got her right where he wants her, which is nearly undone. Not wanting her over sensitized, and knowing if he hesitates, she'll get back inside her head and slow herself down, he perseveres, wants her to come fast and hard.

The third finger stretching and curling and bearing down is what tips her over, and she lets out one sharp cry as she tenses, muscles clamping around his fingers, hips rocking up into his waiting mouth. When she's worked her way down from the peak, controlled her breathing, stilled her seeking hips, he slides out of her, pulls away, has shucked off his flannel in seconds and is back on top of her, pulling covers up over them as he pins her down against the mattress.

It's a warm, soft cocoon under the blankets, and she's slid down off the pillow, so they've sunk deep into his bed, carving out a hollow with the weight of their bodies. Her eyes are liquid amber, her lips a tender bow, cheeks flushed to crimson, and she's boneless under him, shifting to wrap herself around him until it seems only natural to immerse himself in her snug and welcoming heat. Moving slowly, he watches her as their bodies merge, sees in her eyes the moment he's filled her fully, just as his hips come to rest against hers.

They fit so well. After so many years of dancing around it, sex had come easily to them. Used to interpreting every other cue, finding ways to make her lose her composure had seemed almost laughably, delightfully simple. And he's been building on that ease for more than half a year, so even like this, with him so eager and her half-lulled into a post-orgasmic haze, he knows he can coax another climax out of her. Keeping everything unhurried, deliberate, he strokes deep inside her and stays there, circling his hips with each tight thrust.

When she goes from pliant and wreathed around him to arching against every smooth descent, he knows he has her. The little hum she repeats as he bottoms out inside her spurs him on, speeds him up, and she meets the faster pace, lifts her hips and squeezes her inner muscles around him every time he slides away. Her fingers have curled at the small of his back, but she unwraps her legs and plants her feet, skims her hands down to clutch at his ass, pull him in closer, urge him to work himself deeper inside her. He does, and she lets out an "oh" of shock, pleasure radiating from widening eyes, parting lips, gasping breath.

He's been biding his time, waiting her out, so focused on her reactions that it takes him completely by surprise when his body responds to hers with the sharp, inevitable tingle at the base of his spine, the sudden compulsion to just embed himself within her, swift and relentless and unceasing, until they both come apart.

"Castle."

The urgency in her voice is what does it, what lets that fierceness loose. And then his skin is sliding hot against hers, slicked by sweat and arousal, his muscles are burning as they flex again and again, striving for speed and just the right tension, the perfect amount of wild, spiking force to carry her up that final stretch with him.

The first flutter comes as he's buried to the hilt inside her, and just as she lets out a cry and tightens down around him, tilting to take as much of him as she can, he surges into her, spasming and releasing in time with her rhythm as her body pulsates, tries to pull him deeper. He doesn't even recognize that he's chanting over and over until his body stills, the last ounce of pleasure finally wrung out of him. But he hears himself then, "Love you, Kate," repeating against the background of her panting breath, her quiet murmur of "I know, I know," finally sinking in through the rosy haze.

Burying his face in her neck, he can't believe he's done such a stupid, clichéd thing. Those words never come out of his mouth when they're in bed, because he knows it would just put pressure on her to answer, and the last thing he wants is to hear her say those three words for the first time when she's out of control, or worse yet, feeling obligated or sorry for him. So he puts a vise around his heart to keep everything inside, because he wants to say it every single time. He's never been one to mix love and lust, never one to say those words lightly, and he thinks he can count on one hand the number of times he's said them in bed. But from their very first time, all those months ago when she threw herself into his arms and told him she wanted him, he's had to fight the overwhelming urge to let the joy spill out in those perfect words.

But she seems to have weathered his slip well, is stroking a hand along his back and another through his hair, not whispering some pity-laden statement in his ear. Rolling off to her side, he pulls her against his chest, tucks her under his chin, breathes easier for having unburdened his heart without handicapping hers. He's just drifted back toward the blissful thought that he has her with him, his longest and least probable Christmas Eve wish finally granted, when she takes in a breath to speak. Her words come out slow and measured, sending tiny huffs of air across the cooling skin over his heart.

"You left out one... very... important... thing that this present can do."

Ah, so she is okay-back to banter. He's surprised she was even paying attention to what he'd been saying as he worked over her, and the thought of her unfailing concentration brings out a smile he knows she can't see.

"Just one? I think we must have covered at least twenty."

That earns him a soft thwack against his stomach, where her hand has been idly drawing patterns.

"Those things too, but that's not what I meant. Something else."

Not sure where she's going, he decides to let her lead.

"I give up. No brain cells left to be clever right now."

She doesn't move, doesn't meet his eyes, keeps her cheek flush against his ribcage, in a perfect spot to hear his heart flip and roll and restart when she speaks.

"This present can love you back."

**# * # * # * #**

**Joy, my beta, you shall be eating Tex-Mex while I suffer on the East Coast for another week. I toast you from a distance with a very large Margarita in thanks for looking this over while driving cross-country. I'll join you shortly.**

**Readers, your response to the first two chapters of this story have been amazing. What a wonderful surprise to have so much lovely feedback on my little Christmas story. I'll probably try to keep it going for a few more chapters, maybe finishing by New Year's. Happy holidays, whichever ones you may celebrate!**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**

**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**


	4. Chapter 4

**Wishes Chapter Four (Rated T)**

**This picks up immediately after the end of chapter 2. The M-rated chapter 3 can be inserted into the middle of chapter 2, but even if you skipped that one, you can pick this up right where you left off.**

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Castle stares dumbly at the newly-cut key that is now catching the sunshine pouring through the open drapes as it dangles down from the Nebula Nine keychain.

His mind flashes back to this morning, when he surfaced from one of the deepest, soundest sleeps he has had in a long while to a single beam of light through his blinds, and a snuggling length of woman against his side. One of the benefits of having a teenager at Christmas time is that he is no longer woken before dawn by a tiny, blue-eyed redhead jumping on his bed to go open Santa's presents. But recently, until this year, until Kate, he has been feeling ambivalent about his ability to sleep in on Christmas morning. This holiday is not meant to be started alone in a cold bed; it's meant to be shared with the people you love. Now, well, now his heart's desire is stretching like a cat, and making this little sated humming noise against his shoulder, and catching the streak of golden morning light with her messy curls.

"Merry Christmas, Castle."

Her voice is rough with sleep, and it's happy, so very happy. Banding his arms around her warm, supple body, he rolls her under him, prompting a laugh and a smile.

"Yes, it is."

And then he kisses her, just because he can, just because she's the best present he's ever gotten, and he wants to memorize this moment, because he never wants to wake up any other way on Christmas morning ever again. Unless it involves a little hazel-eyed brunette bouncing on their bed.

Too much, too fast, he knows. So he focuses on how he's gotten exactly what he wished for.

"Dad?"

His daughter's voice breaks him out of the memory, and he snaps back to what's just happened under the tree.

Kate's giving him her key right in front of his family. On Christmas morning. A little tendril of panic creeps into his gut.

How on earth is he not prepared for this?

Why isn't his key wrapped up in a little red box for her? The thought just hadn't crossed his mind that she might do this, be ready for this, make such a public statement out of this...

But really he needs to say something, because his cheeks are getting sore from the sheer magnitude of his smile.

"Wait right here."

Jumping up with more ease than his joints would normally allow, and crossing the room to his office, he grabs the fob from his top drawer. It's been here since... well since two days after she showed up at his door soaking wet and ready to start whatever this is that's growing by leaps and bounds every day.

"I'm sorry it's not wrapped. I've had it..."

It's tacky, he knows it is, but it's too late to take the key to his loft off the "I-heart-Nikki" wooden keychain. Kate can deal, or she can switch it to something less obnoxious if she wants to. That's not the point. The point is, reciprocation, swift and immediate. Because she scooped him. He has been waiting and waiting for the right time, and now her Christmas present has stolen his thunder, and he swears that is not happening the next time, though he's not pulling out that little box any time soon. Besides, he really couldn't care less about being caught unawares, because Kate just _gave him her key_.

Holding out her palm for the offering with a bit more assertiveness behind her smile, she inspects the little rectangle, gives him a raised eyebrow, but nevertheless closes her fist around it and tucks it into the pocket of her pajamas.

Having nearly forgotten they had an audience, he scans the faces of his mother and daughter. This is their home, too, after all, and though both have known about the key sitting in his desk drawer for months, they have also had their reservations about her level of commitment. His mother's grin and overblown wink are easy to see from her position behind Kate, and Alexis has one thumb firmly stuck up in the air nestled close to her body out of Kate's line of sight. So that's a plus. The redheads approve.

Well, it seems almost anti-climactic now, but he figures she ought to open her actual present eventually. Nodding in the direction of the box, laying forgotten on the floor, he reminds her.

"Your turn."

The paper is torn off in seconds-it seems the Castle-Rogers method of unwrapping has rubbed off on her. As she lifts the lid, tissue floats up from where it lies folded over the gift, but she carefully sets the lid aside before parting the crisp green leaves with a delicate rustle. His time is split between her hands and her face, takes in the shape of her eyes, as they widen and then quickly narrow, the gentle curve of a smile on her lips. When she takes the frame out, holds it right-side-up, peers over it at him, her expression is a mix of joy and confusion.

"You had someone sketch us?"

Letting out the breath he has been holding when he sees the sincerity of her happiness, he answers with a little more confidence than he has felt all morning.

"No, actually, I didn't."

"But this is us, in the park?"

She turns the 5-by-7-inch simple silver frame part-way toward him, and the image hits him deep in his chest all over again. It's a flowing, colorful scene from early fall, set in a quiet, flowered corner of the park. A woman with long, curling hair is facing mostly away, wrapped in the arms of a slightly taller, dark-haired man. They're not paying any mind to the artist, too caught up in a passionate kiss to notice whatever might be happening around them. The wind has kicked up her hair, blocking the artist's view of their faces, which have been left in vague, rosy strokes.

Alexis pipes up when he doesn't immediately answer Kate's question.

"See, I told him you'd think so, too."

Kate's questioning eyes need an explanation as she lightly traces the lines beneath the glass.

"I was meeting Alexis in the park for lunch a few weeks ago, and I was early, so I was walking along 5th by the Met. This woman on the sidewalk had sketches of everything from Obama to Angelina Jolie, but right up front she had a few scenes from the park."

Alexis continues his story, more invested in the gift than he has realized.

"He brought it to show me, thinking you might be upset because someone had seen you guys together, but I said I thought it was really beautiful, and he should give it to you as a gift."

"That's my green jacket, and your striped scarf. You can't see our faces, but that's definitely us."

There's no anger, no annoyance in her voice or her features. In fact, there's a dreamy softness about her as her eyes drift over the image. Her tone is hushed when she speaks, and he can't be sure that she's meant to say the words aloud.

"It has sort of a magical quality about it, don't you think-the light through the trees?"

"I know, right? I asked her if she remembered drawing it, and she just said she sits near the Ramble some mornings, and people usually don't know she's there, and she tries not to use faces, just shapes and colors and impressions."

"I remember that day."

"Me too."

He definitely remembers that day. It had been the morning of the Swan murder, and they hadn't seen each other at all the day before. Even though it wasn't on their way to the precinct, he had begged her to meet him in the park, because he was being greedy and wanted a few minutes with her before they had to start their day. Despite accusing him of "melodramatic pining," she somehow agreed to meet him anyway. They never show affection in public, and it hadn't been long after that they had a stark wake-up call about why they shouldn't do so anywhere near the precinct, but tucked into the Ramble at such a chilly, misty, early-morning hour, with nary a soul about, they had silently agreed to walk hand in hand.

And as always, he had taken it a step further, picked a secluded spot on a switchback in the path to turn and let her forward momentum carry her into his chest where he had held her, kept her, not let her go. Something about the glow of the orange sunrise through the trees, and the abrupt nearness, the feel of each other, warm and solid and there, had made her perch up on tiptoe, seek his lips, find their seam with her persuasive tongue. Never able to say no, he had drawn her in as tightly as his arms could manage, kissed her soundly, deeply, thoroughly, making up for more than a day without feeling her, tasting her, breathing her in.

Even now, the ridiculousness of that eager, impatient wanting, that instinct to keep her near and have her, feel her skin slick and soft against his, despite the fact that he'd spent the better part of four years at arm's length, is not lost on him.

Looking back, he is not surprised that they were lost in that kiss long enough to inspire. The picture is evidence that together they can play muse to complete strangers. It's the gravity of what they share that pulls people in, making them covet that intangible, positive energy radiating from their connection enough to reproduce it in whatever way they can.

Martha waves a Christmas-tree-clad sleeve at Kate to catch her attention.

"Let me see it again, darling. I only got a tiny peek right before he wrapped it."

Kate holds it up in Martha's direction, and he sees her eyes fall to the shiny silver rectangle affixed to the wooden back of the frame. This is what he's been afraid of-damn, she couldn't have found this later when it was just the two of them?

After he had picked out the frame, the gift shop saleswoman had brought up engraving. Knowing there was no way he would get away with putting something on the front and still have any chance of her ever displaying the picture, he had declined. Not that he really thought he had much chance of finding it in her living room, but still, hope springs eternal. But then that dedicated retail entrepreneur had pointed out that they could put the plate on the back, under the brace, where it wouldn't be seen unless someone knew it was there.

Something about engraving this picture spoke to him, maybe the timelessness of the act of carving one's thoughts into permanence, putting them on display where they can't be erased or denied.

Agreeing to the very pleased woman's plan, it hadn't taken him long to draft the words, words Kate seemed to be reading right at this moment.

"Kate, Inspiring now and always. I love you. -RC"

The curving script spells out foolish, sentimental drivel. He knows it is. But he hasn't been thinking straight since they've been together; it must be all the happy endorphins from so much fantastic sex. Oh who is he kidding, he's smitten, and he wants the whole world to know he finally got the girl, and he just loves her so much that it leaks out of him, sometimes in the form of engraved silver plates on the backs of picture frames.

But instead of the glare or the eyeroll that he has been steeling himself for, he finds something he never expected-tears.

His mind kicks into panicked boyfriend mode as the subtle pools of moisture gather at her lower lids. After the tears the night before, he's kept things carefully happy and light, but of course this present is going to make her cry sitting under the Christmas tree. Damn.

But before his brain can spiral any further down the rabbit hole of self-loathing, she blinks twice, and the tears are gone in that miraculous way girls can sometimes make them disappear and replaced by a shy little smile.

She likes it.

His whole body relaxes, lungs let in air. And when she finds his eyes, he gives her a tiny nod, a raise of his brows, and her face opens up in a wide, toothy grin. His mother stands suddenly, collecting her gifts and not-so-subtly clearing her throat.

"Alexis, why don't we go check on breakfast?"

Tugging sharply on the collar of the girl's candy cane pajamas, she clears the room for them in an unexpected moment of motherly insight.

Kate sets the frame on the coffee table, brushes an unruly lock of hair behind her ear, refolds the paper and tidies the box. Running out of things to do with her hands and eyes and concentration, her body just stills, fingers loosely gripping her knees, and she stares at the sketch.

"You like it?"

She nods.

"Even the-"

Her eyes darting to meet his stop him mid-phrase.

"Especially the back."

The smile just flows over him, and he starts to unfold his legs, reach over to kiss her "you're welcome," but he puts his hand down on top of his gift from her, making the brass objects strike and clink together. Pausing to pick up his new key, he scoots close to her, cradles it in his palm.

"I love mine, too. But not as much as the one I unwrapped last night."

That's an evil grin if he's ever seen one.

"Ah, but this one gives you easy access to the other one whenever you want..."

Oh, he loves the way her mind works.

"Have I mentioned I'm glad you decided to stay?"

"You might have, once or twice."

His interrupted lean continues, shoulder making first contact, hand coming up into her hair, fingers stroking her scalp, eyes flitting over the blushing apple of her cheek, the half-moon of her chin, the soot of her lashes as her eyes drop to his lips. Barely brushing the pout of her lower lip with his kiss, he feels her shiver just before her mouth opens to him, chasing for more contact. He delays her, shifting his eyes to glance around the room.

"Don't suppose there are any sketch artists lurking around to capture us making out in our Christmas PJs?"

"Don't think so, but both those women both have iPhones with above average cameras."

"They wouldn't dare. I have too much blackmail material on them from Christmases past."

And with a single note of a low chuckle, she finds his lips with her peppermint-scented smile, invades his mouth with her coffee-flavored tongue, carefully tangles it with his. By the time they surface, she is breathless and filling his lap, and that's probably for the best, since his family is in the kitchen, and flannel isn't going to hide his enjoyment of the past few minutes.

"Breakfast is served, family come hither and partake of the feast so nobly prepared this glorious Christmas morn!"

Clutching the lapels of his sleep shirt, her brow furrows.

"Wait? Did your mother make breakfast?"

"Nope. But she plated it, and in her mind that counts as full participation as it pertains to bragging rights."

Soft smile returning, she pats his chest.

"Oh good, I was worried I was going to have to come up with an excuse to leave wearing these ridiculous pajamas."

Planting a messy kiss, she uses his shoulders to push up off the floor, pops her back stretching and starts to turn to the kitchen for food.

Letting out a quiet laugh, the memory, the stark, heart-freezing fear of last night hits him again. He'd had to beg her to stay, to stare down her past and find some way to envision their future. And he'd almost failed. But now, well now she's _worried_ she might have to leave before breakfast. Deciding it's time to retrieve something he had given up on, he takes a detour to the back of the tree.

Searching only for a moment, his eyes light on the silver ornament, hung by its purple satin ribbon in a nondescript spot out of sight. For all the worry he had spent on what she would think of her gift, he had wasted twice as much on this, enough to decide to keep it to himself, hide it in the shadow of bigger, flashier ornaments where no one would notice. He had thought he could show it to her next year, that by then maybe she could appreciate the sentiment.

But after all the words and actions and understanding that have been given and received since she came to his door last night, he thinks it's time to bring this into the light.

Her hands startle him, wrapping around his waist from behind, pulling in close to warm his back with the soft press of her body against his.

"Whatcha got there?"

It's her curious voice, the one she uses for asking about Nikki Heat chapter previews and about clues cuddled with him on Sunday mornings over the _Times_ crossword.

"I got it at the same place as your frame. Thought maybe I should put it out where shows."

Tilting the oval disc so its surface faces her, he reads the lines quietly in his head. After a moment, she extends one finger to trace them with its tip.

"K. B. + R. C.  
Christmas 2012"

Her hand closes over it as she unwraps herself from around him and steps gingerly through opened packages to the very front of the tree.

Reaching for a branch at eye level, she closes her eyes, pausing just before letting the ribbon settle on the fluffy finger of evergreen. The tiniest smile crosses her lips, and then she opens her eyes, eyes that snap at his with the bright, shiny emerald of their tree and melt over him with the soft, liquid pull of her wish.

Finding his hands with hers, tugging him forward until their flannel-clad hips meet, Kate lays bare only promise, hope, and light when she answers the question he hasn't had to ask.

"I'll tell you this time next year."

**# * # * # * #**

**To my wonderful readers: Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and I truly hope that now that we have survived the Mayan apocalypse together, that we can all have a prosperous, safe, and happy 2013. Thank you for the outpouring of reviews. Holy Christmas cookies, you guys are so nice to me! All your words are by far the best present I'll have under my tree this year.**

**I've debated stopping this story here, but I do have a thought for a New Year's chapter. Let me know your feelings. **

**Joy, thank you for the vacation beta, above and beyond as always. First round of Margaritas is on me, my dear.**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**  
**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**


	5. Chapter 5

**Wishes: Miles Away (K)**

**Written for the 12th Precinct Christmas competition, it tied for third place in the popular vote.**  
**It fits as a coda to "Wishes," so I am adding it as chapter five. Thanks to dtrekker (Angie) for the lovely artwork!**

**# * # * # * #**

"You'd better hurry up, Castle. I'm almost laced up, and you're on the clock with the Zamboni."

He can't believe she's here, that she's actually agreed to the wish he'd whispered snuggled under the covers when she'd stayed over on Christmas Eve. But this afternoon, she had dug out her ridiculous neon skates from where they had been buried in the back corner of her closet (where he is never allowed to snoop), and donned leggings and thick wool socks and a soft, fluffy red sweater and these adorable green earmuffs, and when has Kate Beckett ever worn anything adorable in her whole adult life? Ice skating is apparently the exception to her New York fashionista tendencies.

Knotting the last laces as quickly as his chilled fingers can manage, he stands up and follows her to where she's waiting, with this indulgent little grin and perfect rosebud lips and cherry cheeks, at the cut-out in the wall leading to the ice rink.

It's been two days since she showed up at his door offering, and seeking, new Christmas traditions, traditions for them, traditions, presumably, that she has plans to keep next year, and the year after. Every hour she's spent with his family, her heart has seemed lighter. Even when she had finished with her dad on Christmas Day, she had called, pushed past the hints of melancholy in her voice that he could not help but hear, and asked if she could come back for their "It's a Wonderful Life" movie night. She had even begrudgingly agreed to stop at the store on the way for extra caramel for the popcorn.

Now that's not to say he hasn't been walking on eggshells a bit, not really bringing up anything that might directly remind her of her mom or her childhood Christmases.

But now, with his gloved hand on the small of her back and his smile propelling her forward onto the ice, he thinks he might be able to push his luck a bit, see if he can salvage a few happy memories for her, bring them into the light of day, and the light of the 80-foot spruce that survived Superstorm Sandy to land at Rockefeller Center, covered in five miles of lights for all of New York to see.

The second her skates hit the rink, she is off like a shot. Obviously she has done this before. Even the little whirling dervish figure skating prodigies that always seem to occupy center ice can't throw her off her rhythm. When she gets halfway around the rink, she looks back for him, and he finds himself still rooted to the spot, just staring after her grace, her bubbling lightness.

His cheeks are already sore from smiling.

On her way to her second lap, she slides elegantly to a stop at his side, holds out her red-gloved hand, face lit up brighter than the whole damn tree.

"You coming, Castle?"

Taking her hand, he pushes off and starts around the oval at her side, states the obvious as an icebreaker.

"You've done this before."

"Not in a long while. But yes, I have. Have you?"

"Every year, sometimes twice, with Alexis. Plus I learned to skate playing hockey as a kid."

"Did you guys go this year?"

"Haven't yet. Sometimes we go on New Year's Eve. Tree's still up a week after."

Steady enough on skates, he's happy to just hold her hand, fingers intertwined, go at whatever pace she sets, match her rhythm.

People-watching, staring up at the tree, just being beside her, take up the first few laps, but eventually he can't hold it in any longer. When the troop of five-year-olds buzz by for the fifteenth time, he starts in with trivia and a boisterous tone, tugging on her hand to catch her eye.

"Do you know what they do with the tree after they take it down?"

"They mulch it, don't they?"

"You are correct. They give the mulch to the Boy Scouts, too. For... mulching things."

The blush crests across his cheeks, and he's amazed that though he knows this woman better than any he can remember, except for the two he shares genes with, she can still make him giddy and flustered like a teenager on his first date.

"I imagine the Boy Scouts have a lot of parks to mulch."

For some reason, she isn't taking the opportunity to harass him for his lack of eloquence. Maybe the Christmas season has turned her soft... Attempting to reclaim his trivia prowess and therefore his manhood, he tries again.

"Yes, but do you know what they do with the last part? The part they don't mulch?"

"You got me, Castle."

Pausing half a beat to mentally acknowledge that yes, he does in fact have her, finally, thank God, he continues, loving the momentary victory in his little useless Christmas trivia game.

"They give it to the U.S. Equestrian Team in New Jersey to use as an obstacle jump."

Turning her face to him with a startled little laugh, she skates closer, shoulder kissing his as they sync up their gliding to Andy Williams' "Most Wonderful Time of the Year."

"Huh, that's actually really cool."

"You sound so surprised that I could come up with a piece of inane trivia you'd appreciate, Detective. Do I win a prize?"

Her voice drops to incredulous when she answers, though the sparkle that remains in her eyes tells him she's probably going to indulge him for now.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Twenty questions of Kate Beckett Christmas trivia."

Her lips purse at that, a crease forming between her eyebrows.

Taking his chance while he has it, he lets loose her right hand from his left, reaches around her waist, pulls her into a partner hold, taking up her right hand in his and continuing their rhythm. To her credit, she doesn't falter, lets him have his way, fits herself rather snugly against his side. His gloved fingers sink into the softness of her sweater, and she covers them with her own, smiling straight ahead.

"I guess I can humor you. But I might not last through all twenty."

His heart leaps at the prospect of getting even five, but he does his best not to glow too much in her direction, so as not to spook her. Wasting no time, he starts in with the easy ones, the ones she can answer about her life now.

"Eggnog or mulled wine?"

"Definitely eggnog."

"Made with spiced rum or whiskey?"

"Cognac."

"Ooo. I like it. Next year, definitely trying that recipe."

He forges on.

"Ah, but eggnog latte or salted caramel mocha?"

"Two-pump-"

Before she can voice the third syllable he harmonizes, matching the rest of her order exactly.

"-sugar free vanilla grande skim latte. I should have known better."

Looking slightly askance, she drops the corner of her mouth in mock disappointment.

"Moving on. Favorite Christmas song?"

"We haven't heard it yet, but I'll let you know when we do."

Cryptic, but he'll take it. Especially when he's about to head into Christmases past. Using his best over-exaggerated game show host voice and arching one eyebrow, he continues.

"Christmas dinner: turkey or ham?"

"We had lamb, or sometimes prime rib, actually. Turkey and ham were for Thanksgiving."

"Interesting. Who was the cook in the family?"

"We all cooked, actually. Mom made the main dish and most of the desserts, but Dad and I split up most of the sides."

After she's vetted that one like a pro, he suddenly has hope that maybe she won't stop him, so he detours to something lighter.

"Have you ever eaten fried turkey?"

"Once. My neighbor made it one year, set off the smoke alarm in his apartment and got the whole fire department out, so he brought some over to apologize."

"What did you think?"

"It was very... fried."

His laughter just spills out at the sudden squint of her eye and the little crinkle in her nose at the memory, and his exuberance almost throws them off balance, but he reins it in, clutches her just a little tighter to keep their footing, and they push on past the extremely wobbly Japanese tourist couple that appears to have never skated a day in their lives, but yet somehow have made it out into the middle of the main traffic lane of the busy rink.

Since she hasn't told him to stop, he keeps going.

"You already told me you opened presents on Christmas morning."

"Of course we did. What do you take us for, barbarians?"

It takes effort to bite back the revelation that his family, despite their change of plans with her presence this year, typically rips into all the presents well before Santa has had a chance to come down the chimney.

"Nutcracker or Rockettes' Christmas Spectacular?"

"Seriously? The Rockettes. They have camels."

"You said you always had a real tree. Did you go chop it down yourselves?"

"Uh, also not lumberjacks, Castle."

This one very well might be his favorite.

"Naughty... or nice?"

"As far as my parents knew, nice."

That innocent face is obviously hiding something juicy.

"Ooooooo. I want that story."

"That involves so many more than one story..."

There is no way she is getting out of at least one of them later, but he'll leave it for now, in favor of getting through a few more questions.

"Are there pictures of you sitting on Santa's lap?"

An evil little grin curves at her lips, and she turns to face him as she answers in her full on Bedroom Voice.

"Why, are you interested in having a photo shoot later?"

Oh, ho ho ho... He knows he still has a santa hat somewhere in his costume closet... Now he has a mission for when they get home.

"Why, yes, Detective, I think that could be arranged."

Veering to the right, they narrowly avoid a pack of teenagers who have come to a dead stop to take photos with their iPhones. It snaps him out of his lusty imaginings, though, which is probably for the best.

"Did you ever try to wait up for Santa?"

Taking a breath, her smile falls, and he can tell this isn't going to be another snarky comeback.

"When I was five, I snuck out on the roof after my parents put me to bed. I was just sure I could see the sleigh and the reindeer land on top of the building, and I wanted to know how he got in that chimney if he was really so big and fat. Instead I saw a lot of pigeons roosting, nearly froze my fingers off, and ended up trying to sneak back inside, totally frustrated a few hours later, only to find my mother crying and the police going door-to-door in the building trying to find me. I never really believed much in Santa after that."

That puts a somber tint on the white of the ice, the gray of the snow clouds, the green of the tree. But if nothing else, it's another mystery solved. He's known all along there must have been something significant that made her stop believing in Santa Claus, and it probably hadn't happened when she was nineteen.

Kate's pace slows slightly, and he sees her gaze drifting over to a spot in the center of the ice. Thinking she's lost in dark thoughts, he's preparing a witty quip about statistics on employment rates and salaries of shopping mall Santas when his eyes land on what's actually drawn her focus.

A sandy-haired brother and sister, neither more than five years old, almost spherical with coats and scarves and mittens and hats, are circling a middle-aged man at breakneck speed, and suddenly the little girl swings around behind him, ducks, and zips between his wide-spread legs, the tinier little boy following almost immediately afterward, in sort of a reverse-leap-frog. They both circle right back around their very slowly moving dad and take another turn, but this time, she stops short, and her brother plows into her full speed from behind, sending them both sprawling on the ice, nearly tripping dad in the process.

Kate's been grinning ear to ear this whole time, but when they take the spill, a little gasp escapes, and her face falls, immediately serious. But the kiddos pop back up, bouncing as only littles ones can, and beg their dad to do it again, to which he, of course, agrees.

The two of them have stopped cold, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, right in the middle of the rush to watch this scene unfold, and at the renewed smiles and laughter from the family, Kate seems to awaken from her little trance, looks fleetingly at Castle, takes her lower lip between her teeth for just a split second before filling her lungs with air and pushing off again.

They've gone halfway around again in silence, his ears cueing in on the shrieks of laughter from their friends still playing somewhere behind them, when he hears her start to hum.

The volume is low enough that in the din and echo of the sunken rink, he might have missed it, but the notes match the music now wafting through the frigid air. And three notes in, she actually starts singing, low and slow and solemn.

"...a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light. From now on, our troubles will be out of sight."

A snowflake hits him square on the nose, and he pulls her hand along to bat at the cold wet spot with his glove. Despite the distraction, she continues in her rich alto, but instead of letting him take her arm back out for balance, she separates from him, switches hands, starts skating backward, pulling him along. She's facing the tree, and the reflection of all those thousands of lights shimmers in her golden-green eyes, as big, fat snowflakes now drift down around them.

She's singing to him, though still so quietly probably no one else can hear.

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make the Yuletide gay. From now on, our troubles will be miles away."

Humming through the middle, she slows, draws him closer to the edge, stops near the glassed-in wall, sings the last bit straight into his eyes, frosty breath close enough to warm his lips as she blinks almost shyly up at him. His arms take her up, hold her tight, happier than he thinks he's ever been. And he listens. And his heart hears.

"Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bow, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now."

**# * # * # * # **

**Thanks for the reviews and enthusiasm for my holiday story. I might still write a New Year's Eve chapter. **

**This went un-betaed for the contest, so all mistakes are my own. But Joy was there when I had the inspiration for this chapter, watching kids skating at Rockefeller Center. My exact words were: "This is going in a story." :)**

**Lyrics are from "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," specifically this version, by She and Him:**  
**youtube dot com slash playlist ?list=PLnXP8GXCbzfUwR2VJZP4-m8f1MEqA8xzA**  
**No copyright infringement is intended.**

**Twitter: Kate_Christie_**  
**Tumblr: KathrynChristie dot tumblr dot com**


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